


The Press of the Plunger

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Heroin, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, super possible that enjolras will not see this as consensual in the morning guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Show me, then, Grantaire. Show me what's so great about a baggie of fucking powder. Show me what your life is worth to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Press of the Plunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onelessvariation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onelessvariation/gifts).



> I think I've just spent too long in the RENT fandom. Writing heroin junkies is like, my favorite hobby, and idk Grantaire is an addict by nature eh? I really liked this concept. Originally this was going to be kind of funny and for the kink meme but um idk if it's really what they're looking for anymore, it's kind of... just angst. Also for Elizabeth who I love dearly.

Enjolras high is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.  
  
That's saying something, considering that on any normal day the sun shines out his ass. At least it does in Grantaire's opinion, and quite frankly, he didn't care about anyone else's. He isn't even worried about what Combeferre will say, or Courfeyrac, or god forbid Jehan find out what he's done to their poor virginal leader.  
  
Said leader was sprawled in his lap, straddling him with his arms wrapped around his neck and his mouth at his ear. The way he's been sucking at the lobe is more than a little uncoordinated but then, he'd expected that, and he doesn't mind. (Who is he kidding- he could die happy right now, with Enjolras spit pooling in the shell of his ear, and he's not even  _ashamed_.) Parnasse and Eponine pass a joint back and forth on the couch, trade spit as well, smoke filling the basement with a gray haze that he never wants to leave again. Nope. He'll just stay like this forever with Enjolras and his hard on pressed to his hip, the prodding of which is making him nearly dizzy with excitement.  
  
He should probably feel bad. He does, in the back of his mind, because that little red dot on the inside of the crook of his elbow has marred his flawless skin forever. And in the morning he's going to wake up and hate himself more than he ever has, and Enjolras will too, probably. But the guilt will have time to eat him later; right now he's floating, and Enjolras is right beside him, making pretty little noises as he shifts in his lap and wriggles closer.  
  
"We should fuck," he whispers, or thinks he does. He's obnoxiously loud like this, something Grantaire would never have anticipated and would gleefully treasure the memory of until the day he died. Either way nobody cares, and Eponine laughs so hard she chokes and has to wash the smoke in her throat down with the rest of her beer. Parnasse follows it down her throat with his tongue just moments later.  
  
"I dunno, Apollo," he murmurs, calloused fingers carding through silky blonde hair. He feels like he's dirtying him and fuck, he  _likes_ it. Grantaire has always known that he was sick in the head but he'd never imagined he'd drag an angel down with him. "Not now."

Enjolras, fallen from grace, pulls back with glazed eyes and a lopsided grin before ducking down to kiss him again.

"You're your own worst cockblock," Eponine calls from the other couch, working her hand inside of the dark-haired man's jeans. Montparnasse hisses and rolls his hips down, pinning her free hand to the cushion beside her. Grantaire looks away before he catches a glimpse of something he knows by now that he doesn't want to see.

Instead he concentrates on Enjolras, Enjolras who had been so furious when he'd learned what everyone else had been skirting around for a month and a half now. Enjolras whose tongue is in his mouth, whose teeth are clacking against his; Enjolras who had looked almost like he wanted to cry when he'd first seen the row of track marks up the inside of his arms for the first time.

(Grantaire doesn't have the heart to tell him there are more than just those.)

He slides his hands down, and they feel so large wrapped around Enjolras' waist. He feels like a giant and Enjolras feels like a porcelain doll, would look like one too if he weren't writhing in his lap like a deranged snake, more sensual than Grantaire would ever have imagined him sober. But now Apollo is flying, is eclipsing the sun, is pushing his hands insistently up under his shirt the way he had Eponine's earlier before Grantaire had peeled him away in alarm because  _that was not what he expected._

What he expected was a docile kitten, a sleepy blond boy nuzzling into his neck, curled up in his lap as he quietly rode out his first ever high.

What he got was a dangerous glint in blue eyes tinted red and traces of powder still sticking to his skin, to his clothes, as Enjolras pushed him back and straddled him and, if he didn't get his way, repeating the action with whoever was closest to him.

He's heard before that heroin makes a hedonist of everyone. Somehow, he'd thought the rule wouldn't apply to Apollo. But Enjolras isn't some golden god, as he so often allows himself to believe- he's only human, a mortal in a mortal body just as susceptible to narcotics as his and right now he's more human than he's ever been, all sex and mussed hair and flushed lips, flushed face, flush spreading down his chest because at some point he'd lost his shirt and Grantaire tells himself he shouldn't feel guilty for staring when Enjolras had technically taken it off himself.

Enjolras is going to be so mad at him in the morning.

Right now, though. Right now everything is forgotten. Whether or not Enjolras even remembers what he'd been angry about, or how he'd gotten himself into this position -  _"Show me, then, Grantaire. Show me what's so_ great  _about a baggie of fucking powder. Show me what your life is worth to you."_ \- he wants him now and it aches in his chest, aches because he wants to be wanted.

Aches because he knows he's not, not really.

They're going to wake up tomorrow in a tangle of limbs and sweat and come, maybe beer, probably more of that powder that just clings to everything and that Enjolras will never escape now (unless he really  _is_ magic and he can resist the call, but privately Grantaire thinks that this might be the one thing that Apollo can't do, nobody can, it's impossible and why would you want to anyways?) and with one massive ball of agony between them and Enjolras will spit curses as he stumbles out, most likely naked, and go home to his own flat that Grantaire will never be allowed in again.

And Enjolras will hate him.

And Grantaire will hate himself. (But what's new?)

Heroin is the best and worst thing to ever happen to him, aside from Apollo, and it has a hand even in that. He'll have to thank Eponine someday. He'll have to thank her before he drowns himself in his sorrow and presses the plunger and sees nothing but the flames of hell come to swallow him and burn the last of the itching from his veins.

Right now he will let Enjolras suck on his tongue and his nipples and his cock until he's gasping and right now he will push him down and give in, give in so easily to those keening notes, those pleading words,  _fuck me fuck me I want it so bad, I need it, you're so big please_  and all the things Enjolras would never say if Enjolras were Enjolras right now, and that he'll never live down, never forgive himself for saying, never want to remember again but that Grantaire will treasure for the rest of his miserable life.

And right now he will come down a golden boy's throat and clip his wings and hope that come morning he will still be able to soar.


End file.
